Respect, I Suppose
by keyblader41996
Summary: A mission Connor and Haytham go on together goes awry. As Haytham's left tending to a wounded Connor, he has time to himself to think about things.


Another Assassin's Creed fic I had written for a while and only decided to post now. Look at me! On a roll! :) I wrote this in my econ class when I should've been doing other work.

Anyway, this is a one-shot starring the thoughts of the horribly sarcastic and British sass-master, Haytham Kenway. Enjoy!

* * *

How did it come to this?

No, wait, I know how. That stupid boy just couldn't _wait_. Don't they teach patience to those Assassins? I suppose not.

I look back over my shoulder and he's still got his ax locked with a rapier. As they struggle for the upper hand, I rip my own sword from the guard I just struck down and slide the hidden blade from my sleeve. Taking a running start, I leap from the ground, planting my feet firmly on the British man's shoulders. My weight carries the two of us to the ground, and we clip Connor's shoulder when I drive the blade into his throat. A good, clean kill.

Connor recovers and glares at me. I straighten up and retract the blade. "Oh! Terribly sorry!" I say sarcastically. "Would you like me to wait another twenty minutes while you dispatch another?"

"There they are!" another guard yells. "After them! Kill them! Kill the Assassins!"

"Assassins?!" I ask incredulously. Honestly, could these simpletons REALLY not tell the difference?

"You wish!" Connor spits back.

"No, actually, I rather think I don't."

While we banter back and forth, more guards spill from the side streets and surround us; another ten or twelve on us now. I pull Connor's shoulder. "Let's go! We'll never kill all of them!"

I start running, but when I look back, he's twirling his ax like a damn street performer, ready to engage the crowd. I hurry back and push the weapon down. "Will you for ONCE do as I say?!" I yell into his face. I grab the front of his coats and haul him along. Finally, I get him running. We weave through the streets of Boston, startling pedestrians left and right and making an even bigger scene of our escape. Damned boy!

I see ahead of us a clear path to a crowded street where we will surely lose our pursuers, but that hope is dashed as before our very eyes more soldiers appear from around the corner ahead of us. One by one they stop and raise their bayonets, sighting their targets. I quickly dive into a dirty alley off to my right, an over-hasty decision, and catch Connor off-guard. He's late on the reaction, jumping right as they fire, nearly avoiding being shot in the chest at point-blank range. We scramble to our feet and continue down the alley. We turn lefts and rights, so much so that I eventually lose my bearings, but so do our pursuers. Yet I still hear their shouts. I keep looking back periodically, and it's a good thing I do, for I see Connor falling farther and farther behind. For the first time I see his hands clasped to a growing red stain at his stomach on his white vestments. Perfect.

"Must I do EVERYTHING myself?" I say to myself. I turn back for him again, as I've had to do countless times already, and throw his arm hastily around my shoulder.

"I . . . I don't want your help!" he yells like a child.

"Oh shut it! We don't have time for your nonsense!"

Another shout behind us, and we're off again, albeit a bit slower than before. I chide at the slow pace, but there's not much I can do about it at the moment.

And then we're in luck! Someone left their door wide open for us, so we can charge in like ungodly beasts! We do just that: I haul Conner in behind me and slam the door, sliding the bolt across and in place. At least we'll delay them if they decide to check in here.

"Anyone there?" I call. No answer. Another stroke of luck. It wouldn't do to have someone charging down demanding to know what a Brit and a bleeding Red were doing in their house. Connor starts tearing at his gloves and hidden blade, throwing them on the floor as he gets them off. I look through the pantry until I find what I'm looking for: a bottle of I'm not sure what- wine, perhaps? Whatever alcohol it is, it will suffice. I take it back to the kitchen. He's got his coat and undershirts off, clad only in his clan-made leggings and trousers and his weapons belt, prodding at his gunshot wound with teeth clenched. I pull out the stopper and before he can protest I bend him backwards over the table and dump a good amount of alcohol on his wound. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and cries out.

"You're an ass," he mutters to me.

"Just the wound talking," I sneer cheerfully back at him. "Don't make me remind you that _you're_ the one who ruined the bloody mission and got us into this mess! Infiltrate, gather information, get out. That's all we had to do. Discreet. Painless. But then SOMEBODY got impatient! Jumped right in, killed a guard right in the middle of EVERYONE! Oh, and THEN, let's wait til the whole goddamn PLACE knows we're there and sets every guard after us before we run! Good plan, Connor! Really, I'm impressed. Now _you're_ shot and insulting _me_!"

I pour more alcohol into the bullet hole and wait til he's silent again.

"I can see the bullet," I say more calmly. "I can dig it up if you're willing to sit still."

"I'm not letting you do anything!" he says stubbornly.

I can only sigh. "I'm getting rather tired of your petty squabbling. _Stubborn, just like his mother,_" I comment silently. "Fine. Guess you're not willing." I clench my fist and hit him square in the jaw. He's out cold, so I stretch him out on the table and go to work to dig the bullet out.

It's only now, after I've bandaged his torso with an old shirt I found in the house, that I remember the original question: How did it come to this? No, not just THIS. THIS was his fault. But the entire situation. How we came to this point in our lives, with such a set of different views and cross-purposes. Me, with Templar goals and ancient treasures in mind, and him, an Assassin with such a soft and happy view of the world. Where if he gets rid of 'all the bad men', then all will be well. And yet, it goes even so far beyond THAT- beyond me versus him, the white hood versus the red cross. With her. It started with Tí:io. His eyes are hers; set closer together, and the tan skin. The lighter tone than most other Native Americans, and the nose were my touches. Otherwise, he looks like her. Murdered at the hands of Templars, and in that instant, it sent him on a crash-course to deciding the fate of the world. It started with her. HER legacy led us to these instances, led him to wearing all those layers, which HAVE to be ridiculously and undoubtedly hot, under that white hood so he can call himself Assassin. In her name and the name of the hood he dons the blade, the weapons; he wages the battles; he kills who he must. As much as I believe in the Order, he believes in his Brotherhood. And in her name I work with him now. Hood and Cross and all their quarrels put aside in a farcical display of camaraderie. I realize that nothing, not even total disillusionment and complete understanding of the true workings of the world would stray him from the cause he believes in. I suppose I should respect him for that.


End file.
